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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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^y/<VLn^f    l/f/tj&  o/l^^L^^Z^ 

r        #• 


POEMS  FROM  FRANCE 

(ILLUSTRATED) 
ROUGH  &. BROWN   SERIES  NO.  1 


Grateful  thanks  for  the  use  of  all  of  the 
illustration*  with  the  exception  of  "Feind  I/avi" 
and  "Bally  Shannon",  which  were  loaned  by 
"Everyland",  are  due  to  "La  France"  Magazine, 
New  York  City. 


POEMS  FROM  FRANCE 


By 

HARRY  WEBB  FARRINGTON 


Published  by 

ROUGH  &  BROWN  PRESS 

150  Fifth  Avenue 

NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT    BY 

HARRY  WEBB  FARRINGTON 

1920— 1st  Edition 
1920— 2nd  Edition 
1920— 3rd  Edition 
1920— 4th  Edition,  illus. 


Printed  by  the 

ROUGH  &  BROWN  PRESS 

NEW  YORK 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FOREWORD  ix 

INTRODUCTION xi 

FRANCE  CALLS  To  ME 1 

THE  CHICAGO 3 

IN  BISCAY  BAY  4 

AT  A  PARIS  APPLE  STAND 5 

No  BREAD  FOR  THE  BIRDS  6 

THEY  BURIED  HER  As  A  SOLDIER   8 

INTERCESSION  10 

TONY  10 

PONT  WILSON   11 

THREE  GIFTS  12 

CHER  AMI,  D.  S.  C 14 

THE  LANGUAGE  OF  FRANCE  16 

FEIND  L'Avi 18 

I  DREAMED  OF  PEACE  .                                                   .  21 


PAGE 
BALLY  SHANNON   23 

THE  ARMISTICE  IN  FRANCE   27 

WE  REST  IN  CHATEAU  THIKHKY   30 

HELP  OF  THE  HILLS   33 

You  AND  I  34 

THE  FLOWER  OF  FRIENDSHIP   35 

WHO  WON  THE  WAR?  36 

THE  FACE  OF  FRANCE  38 

IRON  HEELS    39 

TEAM  WORK  41 

THE  TIDES 41 

JOAN  OF  ARC  .  .  42 


VI 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

"O  stricken  land" 3 

The  Paris  Pantheon 5 

"When  the  warriors  all  are  fled."    7 

"It's  a  hard  a  standing  on  one  leg."  9 

"In  silent  symbol  represent 

A  Nation,  through  her  President,"    11 

"I  would  I  had  a  world  of  things 

Like  books  and  toys  and  gowns;" 13 

"The  friendship  with  Fair  France, 

As — deep  as  our  Lafayette."  17 

"So  still  I  have  my  Jacquemin,"   . .  22 

"With  the  job  of  tending  the  sheep."  26 

"Heels  and  toes  of  children's  feet." 29 

"The  roots  of  the  union  are  spread 

Like — wood  crosses  on  mounds  of  our  distant  dead.' .  32 

f.  ...    ...,>.  i.  •*•... 

"Where  a  New  France  lies," 40 

i,  ~      .  .. 

"The  day  when  the  Visions — began,"   42 


Vll 


FOREWORD 


Many  would-be  authors  understand  the  feelings  of  Roosevelt 
when  impatient  to  write  more  books,  he  was  told  by  some  critics 
that  his  "works  were  interesting  but  not  literary",  for  after  a 
lecture-recital  of  many  of  the  poems  herein,  one  reported  that 
"the  rhymes  were  human,  spiritual  and  patriotic,  but  of  no  lit 
erary  value." 

True,  none  have  been  printed  in  the  big  magazines.  Timidity 
prevented  their  sending;  some,  however,  have  'appeared  in  the 
Boston  Transcript;  but  it  is  because  they  have  seemed  to  find 
an  acceptance  in  the  minds  and  hearts  of  so  many  children  and 
youth,  and  there  has  been  such  a  sincere  and  insistent  demand 
on  the  part  of  principals  and  teachers  for  a  substantial  book 
with  notes  and  illustrations,  that  this  modest  volume  has  been 
published. 

These  poems  are  dedicated  to  the  many  American  boys  and 
girls  whose  attentive  faces  and  whole-souled  appreciation  have 
inspired  the  author  to  interpret  them  with  all  the  feeling  they 
contain  for  him.  They  are  consecrated  to  the  distant  thousands 
of  children  in  Europe,  the  Near  and  Far  East  whose  needs  have 
compelled  him  to  say: 

"I  CANNOT  SLEEP." 

I  cannot  sleep. 

All  through  the  night 

Frail  figures  creep 

Before  my  sight: 
Children,  children,  children  stare 
With  sunken  eyes  and  glassy  glare: 
Stunted,  starved  and  spiritless, 
Huddled  in  their  helplessness. 

Go,  go,  sweet  sleep, 

With  speed  of  light 

Across  the  deep, 

Tonight!  Tonight! 


viii 


I  cannot  eat, 

At  every  place, 

My  glances  greet 

A  famished  face: 
Children,  children,  children  stand 
From  each  stricken  foreign  land, 
Marking  every  move  I  make, 
Watching  every  bite  I  take, 

Up  bread  and  meat, 

Away,  and  race 

With  death!  Defeat 

Him:  else,  disgrace. 

I  cannot  smile. 

For  aught  I  try, 

I  hear  the  while 

A  bitter  cry: 

Children,  children,  children  pray 
Shorn  of  strength  to  laugh  and  play; 
Calling  for  their  clothes  and  bread, 
Finding  cold  and  stones  instead, 

Then  mile  on  mile, 

Like  lightning  fly! 

Go,  bid  them  smile, 

For  help  is  nigh. 

I  cannot  spend 

Or  hoard  away; 

1  cannot  lend 

My  gold  for  pay. 
Children  from  across  the  seas, 
See  me  in  my  wealth  and  ease; 
How  can  I  escape  their  eyes, 
Or  muffle  their  heart-rending  cries? 

God  help  me  end 

It!  Here  I  lay 

Half  my  goods.  Send 

It!  To-day! 


INTRODUCTION 


A  cataclysm  like  the  great  war,  shaking  the  entire  civilized 
world,  is  calculated  to  evoke  manifold  manifestations  of  the 
human  spirit.  Emotions  are  excited,  passions  aroused  and  as 
pirations  awakened  that  before  had  lain  dormant  beneath  the 
threshold  of  consciousness.  Even  had  we  not  been  drawn  into  it, 
the  titanic  struggle  could  not  have  failed  to  leave  its  impress 
upon  American  literature.  This  is  particularly  true  of  our  verse, 
for  the  poet  has  ever  been  and  must  forever  remain  the  true 
interpreter  of  human  emotions.  .Before,  during  and  after  the 
struggle  many  an  exultant,  many  a  plaintive,  alas  also  many 
a  bitter  cry  was  wrung  from  some  American  singer. 

Among  these,  the  author  of  .this  little  volume  may  not  stand 
pre-eminent  from  the  stand-point  of  technique,  but  there  are 
certain  characteristics  of.  his  work  that  set  upon  it  the  mark  of 
a  real  distinctiveness.  "Rough  and  Brown"  in  tone  and  texture, 
these  verses  are  none  the  less  rare  in  the  loftiness  of  spirit,  their 
sweetness  and  soundness  of  sentiment  and  their  singleness  of 
purpose.  They  breathe  an  optimism  undaunted  and  untainted 
by  the  horrors  and  the  barbarities  with  which  at  times  perforce 
they  deal.  In  almost  every  instance  their  high,  clear  note  rings 
out  determined  and  triumphant,  rarely  lugubrious  unless  with 
a  gleam  of  hopefulness,  never  maudlin  and  never  acrid. 

I  do  not  count  myself  a  critic;  hence  I  shall  say  no  more 
of  Farrington's  contribution  to  our  war  literature,  if  such  the 
little  lyrics  may  be  deemed.  I  am  entitled,  however,  to  speak 
of  the  impression  they  have  made  upon  me  and  others.  I  have 
no  doubt  most  of  these  poems  were  written  aloud,  for  they  belong 
to  that  category  of  graphic  verse  that  seems  written  to  be  recited. 
It  chanced  that  I  read  them  before  I  heard  them,  but  each 
stanza  both  vocalized  and  visualized  itself  as  I  read.  Accordingly 
there  remained  no  surprise  for  me  when  I  beheld  six  hundred 


XI 


children  'hang  breathless  with  eager,  parted  lips  and  moistened, 
shining  eyes  upon  Farrington's  recitation  of  them. 

It  has  been  my  good  fortune  to  introduce  the  author  to 
something  like  three  hundred  thousand  children  in  some  three 
hundred  and  fifty  school  assemblies,  in  addition  to  thousands 
of  adult  auditors  reached  through  our  regular  lecture  platforms. 
It  would  be  futile  to  quote  from  the  hundreds  of  appreciations 
that  have  resulted.  Let  it  suffice  to  say  that  from  these  reactions, 
I  know  beyond  a  peradventure  that  this  little  volume  embodies 
in  homely  form  an  inspiring  and  ennobling  message. 

I  am  loath  to  close  this  introduction,  which  I  am  glad  to 
be  privileged  to  write,  without  giving  utterance  to  a  thought 
born  of  the  hour  when  this  volume  goes  to  press.  Within  the 
last  few  days  there  have  passed  from  our  midst  two  rare  spirits, 
one  a  prelate  of  the  Roman  church,  the  other  a  naturalist  whose 
temple  was  the  out-of-doors, — Cardinal  Gibbons  and  John 
Burroughs.  Both  these  were  laid  away  with  every  mark  of 
reverent  affection  from  widely  divergent  and  comprehensive 
elements  of  our  nation.  In  a  day  and  among  people  where  this 
could  happen,  I  think  it  is  safe  to  believe  that  the  author  of 
"In  Biscay  Bay,"  "No  Bread  For  The  Birds,"  "Cher  Ami"  and 
"Feind  L'Avi,"  and  all  that  ranges  between  those  tender  little 
animal  episodes  and  the  stately  lines  of  "Joan  of  Arc"  has  fairly 
guaged  the  emotional  gamut  of  his  fellow-countrymen. 

ERNEST  L.  CRANDALL 

New  York,  Director  of  Lectures 

April  twelfth,  Board  of  Education. 

Nineteen  hundred  and  twenty-one. 


xii 


FRANCE  CALLS  TO  ME 


Across  the  sea, 

There  comes  the  call 

Of  France  to  me. 
I  hear  the  muffled,  tender  sound 
Of  little  children,  underground; 
Denied,  bereft  of  everything: 
The  right  to  learn,  to  play,  and  sing. 

Dear  little  child 

Across  the  sea, 

I'll  come  to  sing 

And  play  with  thee. 


From  over  there, 

I  hear  the  call 

From  France  in  prayer. 
The  woman  calling  for  her  mate, 
Now  widowed  by  war's  cruel  fate; 
Brides,  homeless,  childless,  all  alone, 
Are  brooding  o'er  a  pile  of  stone. 

Heroic  souls, 

I'll  come  to  share 

Your  bitter  grief 

And  blind  despair. 


[1] 


From  over  sea, 

There  comes  sad  sound 

From  France  to  me. 
The  painful  peal  of  broken  bells. 
Now  shattered  by  Satanic  shells; 
The  war-sick  wind  that  wails  and  whines 
Through  battered  walls  of  sacred  shrines. 

O  House  of  Prayer, 

Where  God's  yet  found! 

I'll  help  to  heal 

Your  wicked  wound. 


Beyond  the  Seine, 

I  hear  the  cry 

Of  France  in  pain. 

The  shrieks  from  shell-hole,  trench,  and  wire, 
Men  crazed  by  gas  and  liquid  fire; 
Dumb  agonies  from  No-Man's  Land, 
Low  groans  beneath  the  surgeon's  hand. 

O  stricken  land, 

Where  evils  reign! 

Your  call  to  me 

Is  not  in  vain. 


[2] 


"THE  CHICAGO." 

The  old  batteau, 
The  Chic-a-go 
So  very  slow 
To  port  Bordeaux; 
When  U-Boat  throw 
The  tor-pe-do; 
It  ahead,  by  Joe 
Of  the  Chic-a-go. 


"0  stricken  land,"   (Page  2), 


[3] 


IN  BISCAY  BAY 


In  Biscay  Bay, 
I  saw  a  bird  at  sunset, 
Near  a  hundred  miles  from  shore; 
West  of  the  place  where  mine-fields  lie, 
South  of  the  base  where  U-Boats  ply; 

Alight  on  deck  where  the  guns  were  set, 
And  perch  on  the  six-inch  fore. 


In  Biscay  Bay, 
There  fled  a  bird  at  sunset 
To  the  air  and  field  of  fray; 
Back  to  its  mates  who  bravely  sing, 
Back  to  the  land  of  the  crutch  and  sling; 

To  perch  in  woods  where  the  guns  were  set, 
And  sing  with  the  birds  who  stay. 


141 


AT  A  PARIS  APPLE  STAND 


Once  the  apples  of  France 

Had  the  red  of  the  rose; 

They  were  kissed 

On  the  cheeks  by  the  sun; 

Their  faces  were  fair, 

For  they  grew  in  the  air, 

Free  of  gas 

And  the  smoke  of  the  gun. 

Now  the  apples  of  France 
Have  the  bruises  of  blood; 
They  are  mangled 
And  marred,  every  one. 
From  the  day  of  their  bloom, 
They  have  lived  in  the  gloom 
Of  the  gas, 
And  the  smoke  of  the  gun. 


THE  PARIS  PANTHEON. 
[5] 


NO  BREAD  FOR  THE  RIRDS 


1 

Little  bird,  don't  follow  me 
'Round  this  pretty  garden  bed; 
Back  upon  your  barren  tree, 
Have  you  not  the  notice  read, 


* 

"Do  not  feed  the  birds  with  bread"? 
Save  it  for  the  men  at  war. 
We  must  keep  'them  well  and  fed, 
That  is  what  the  sign  is  for. 


Spring  is  coming  back  again, 
Fields  and  gardens  must  be  dug; 
You  can  help  to  save  the  grain, 
Fighting  moth,  and  worm,  and  bug. 

161 


Fly  away  then,  build  your  nest, 
Go  while  you  arc  safe  and  free; 
For  your  cousins,  north  and  west, 
Do  not  have  a  home  or  tree. 


Little  bird  along  the  Seine, 
When  the  warriors  all  are  fled, 
May  be  I'll  come  back  again, 
And  I'll  feed  your  children — bread. 


'When  the  warriors  all  are  fled,"   (Page  7) 


[7] 


THKY  BIHIKI)  HKK  AS  A  SOLDIKH 


1 

They  buried  her  there  ;is  ;i   soldier, 
This  frail,  lender  woman 

Who  loved  the  French. 

A   hero's  coilin   will   hold    her. 

So   they   laid   her  to  rest 
Near  a  front  line  trench. 


They  carried  her  there  as  a  soldier, 
This  brave,  fearless  woman 

Who  served  the  French. 

She  had  no  rifle  to  shoulder. 

But  the  cares  of  the  men 
From  the  front  line  trench. 


They  wept  for  her  there  as  a  soldier. 

This  shell-stricken   woman 
Who  cheered  the  French. 

She  banished  the  horrors  they  told  her 
By  her  smile  for  the  men 

From  the  front  line  trench. 


They  thought  of  her  there  as  a  soldier. 

This  bright  buoyant  woman 
Who  charmed  the  French. 

The  colors  of  France  will  enfold  her, 
The  flag  of  her  boys 

In  the  front  line  trench. 


[8] 


They  honored  her  there  as  a  soldier, 

America's  woman 
Slain  with  the  French. 

Her  death  made  every  heart  bolder 
To  save  those  back  of 

The  front  line  trench. 


"CHER  AMI"  IN   His  CAGE  IN  WASHINGTON, 
"It's  hard  a  standing  on  one  leg,"   (Page  16). 


[9] 


INTERCESSION 

I  know 

As  sure  as  falls  the  night, 
At  home,  across  the  sea; 

There  kneels 
A  slender  form  in  white, 
To  ask  God's  care  of  me. 


TONY 


Tony  could  not  read  or  write, 
Or  hardly  spell  his  name; 
He  came  around  the  hut  at  night, 
To  play  the  picture-puzzle  game. 


Tony  twice  was  stuck,   and   shot; 
And  then  his  time  was  spent, 
Lying  on  a  little  cot, 
With  the  colored  supplement. 


110] 


PONT  WILSON 

These  solid  bonds  of  native  stone, 

Which  span  the  currents  of  the  Rhone; 

And  with  the  others,  bind  in  one 

The  many  parts  of  Fair  Lyon; 

In  silent  symbol,  represent 

A  Nation,  through  her  President, 

Which  gave  her  wealth  and  soldiers,  free, 

To  span  the  currents  of  a  Sea, 

And  with  Her  Allied  Sisters,  bind 

In  one,  the  hearts  of  free  mankind. 


"In  silent  symbol  represent 

A  Nation,  through  her  President,"    (Page  11), 


[11] 


THREE  GIFTS 


1 

I  wish  I  had  a  world  of  things 

Like  books  and  toys  and  gowns, 

I  would  I  had  the  wealth  of  kings. 

In  jewels,  robes,  and  crowns; 

For  if  I  were  the  man,  who  brings 

The  soldiers,  drums,  and  clowns. 

And  fills  the  Christmas  stockings, 

In  hamlets,  burghs,  and  towns, 

I'd  bring  or  send  you  just  the  thing 

You  long  have  waited  for; 

And  that  would  make  two  hearts  to  sing. 

Now  could  I  ask  for  more? 


Yes — in  this  world  of  things  and  stun", 

Three  priceless  gifts  are  mine; 

And  were  they  yours  'twould  be  enough. 

I  come  to  make  them  thine. 

One,  is  my  own;  the  next,  a  hope; 

The  third,  I  point  you  to. 

They  are :  my  love,  the  love  from  friend, 

And  the  love  that  dies  for  you. 

So  had  I  every  gift  to  send, 

And  thine  to  be  but  three; 

I'd  send  my  love,  the  love  from  friend, 

And  the  love  that  dies  for  thee. 


[12] 


A    LITTLE  FRENCH  GIRL  WITH  CHRISTMAS  TOYS. 

"I  would  I  had  a  world  of  things, 

Like  books  and  toys  and  gowns,"  (Page  12). 

[13] 


"CHKR  AMI."  1).  S.  C. 

X 

1 

Cher  Ami,  how  do  you  do! 
Listen,  let  me  talk  with  you; 
I'll  not  hurt  you,  don't  you  ser? 
Come  n   little  close   to   me. 

2 

Little  scrawny  blue  and  while 
Messenger  for  men  who  fight, 
Tell  me  of  the  deep,  red  scar, 
Just  there,  where  no  feathers  are. 

3 

What  about  your  poor  left  leg? 
Tell  me,  Cher  Ami,  I  beg. 
Boys  and  girls  are  at  a  loss, 
How  you  won  that  Silver  Cross. 

4 

"The  'finest  fun  that  came  to  me, 
Was  when  I  went  with  Whittlesey; 
We  marched  so  fast,  got  'way  ahead! 
'I  guess  we're  lost',  the  keeper  said; 

5 

kMon  Cher  Ami  (that's  my  dear  friend), 
You  are  the  one  we'll  have  to  send; 
The  whole  battalion  now  is  lost, 
And  you  must  win  at  any  cost'. 

6 

So  with  the  message  tied  on  tight. 
I  flew  up  straight -with  all  my  might; 
Before  I  got  up  high  enough, 
Those  watchful  guns  began  to  puff. 


[14] 


7 

Machine-gun  bullets  came  like  rain, 
You'd  think  I  was  an  aeroplane; 
And  when  I  started  to  the  rear, 
My!  the  shot  was  coming  near! 

8 

But  on  I  flew,  straight  as  a  bee, 
The  wind  could  not  catch  up  with  me; 
Until  I  dropped  out  of  the  air, 
Into  our  own  men's  camp,  so  there!" 

9 

But  Cher  Ami,  upon  my  word, 
You  modest,  modest  little  bird; 
Now  don't  you  know  that  you  forgot? 
Tell  how  your  breast  and  leg  were  shot. 

10 

"Oh,  yes,  the  day  we  crossed  the  Meuse, 
I  flew  to  Rampont  with  the  news; 
Again  the  bullets  came  like  hail, 
I  thought  for  sure  that  I  should  fail. 

11 

The  bullets  buzzed  by  like  a  bee, 
So  close,  it  almost  frightened  me; 
One  struck  the  feathers  of  this  sail, 
Another  went  right  through  my  tail. 

12 

But  when  I  got  back  to  the  rear, 
I  found  they  hit  me,  here  and  here; 
But  that  is  nothing,  never  mind; 
Old  Poilu,  there,  is  nearly  blind. 


[15] 


13 

All  I  care  is  what  they  said, 
For  when  they  saw  the  way  I  bled, 
And  found  in  front  a  swollen  lump, 
The  message  hanging  to  this  stump; 

14 

The  French,  and  Mine,  said,  'tres  bien', 
Or  'very  good' — American, 
'Cher  Ami,  you  brought  good  news, 
Our  Army's  gone  across  the  Meuse! 

15 

You  surely  had  a  lucky  call'! 
And  so  I'm  glad,  I  guess  that's  all; 
I'll  sit,  so  pardon  me,  I  beg; 
It's  hard  a-standing  on  one  leg." 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  FRANCE 

Great  Charles  the  Fifth  of  Ancient  Spain, 
The  world  would  have  thee  say  again: 

That  if  thy  words  to  God  be  'dressed, 
The  Spanish  language  is  the  best; 

And  when  two  lovers  would  commune, 
Italian  sings  the  sweetest  tune; 

While  soft  and  simple  English  words, 
Arc  better  understood  by  birds; 

The  tongue  of  France  best  serves  the  end 
To  give  the  thought  and  heart  to  friend.   • 


116] 


PAUL  BARTLETT'S  STATUE  OF  LAFAYETTE. 

" — the — friendship 

with  Fair  France 
— deep  as  our  Lafayette,"   (Page  35). 

[17] 


'FEIND  L'AVI" 


1 

Tranquil? ,  tranquil? ,  Mon  Feind  1'Avi, 
And  make  your  tail  keep  still; 
Come  tell  your  bravest  deed  to  me, 
Now  quickly,  if  you  will. 

2 

Then  I  will  buy  some  tender  meat, 
With   this  bright   silver  dollar, 
If  you  will  tell  the  wondrous  feat 
That  won  your  golden  collar. 

3 

"My  master,   Sergeant  Jacquemin, 
He  is  a  brave  zouave; 
Like  Colonel  Ellsworth,  Americain, 
And  many  more  you  have. 

4 

One  day  the  big  shells  fell  so  near 
Our  ammunition  pile, 
That  every  one  began  to  fear 
Its  capture  in  a  while. 

5 

Then  Jacquemin  jumped  to  his  feet 
At  first  word  of  command, 
And  started  forward,  toute  d?  suite, 
With  fuses  in  his  hand. 

(5 

The  shells  were  tearing  up  the  ground. 
But  master  did  not  mind; 
He  did  not  want  his  dog  around. 
So  I  kept  far  behind. 


[18] 


7 

Before  he  reached  that  dangerous  pile. 
There  came  a  screeching  sound; 
The  smoke  shot  up  about  a  mile. 
And  he  fell  to  the  ground. 

8 

I  hurried  through  that  awful  air 
To  find  just  where  he  lay; 
But  could  not  se'e  him  anywhere, 
And  it  was  light  as  day! 

9 

I  thought  I  heard  a  moaning  sound. 
But  it  was  hard  to  tell; 
I  plunged  my  nose  down  in  the  ground. 
For  dogs  can  surely  smell. 

10 

I  knew  my  Jacquemin  was  there, 
I  heard  his  muffled  cries; 
So  never  stopped  to  get  fresh  air 
Or  dust  out  of  my  eyes, 

11 

But  dug  and  dug  with  all  my  might 
To  make  my  deep  hole  deeper; 
And  everything  got  black  as  night 
As  I  got  near  my  keeper. 

12 

I  guess  I  stopped  just  once  for  breath 
And  cleaned  my  mouth  and  tongue; 
But  when  I  thought  of  master's  death ! 
I  felt  I  should  be  hung. 

13 

Again  my  feet  began  to  fly, 
The  fresh  dirt  flew  as  fast; 
One  minute  more  and  he  .might  die! 
How  could  mv  master  last?  : 


[19] 


14 

I  snorted,  whined,  and  gave  a  yelp. 
Then  stopped.    His  voice!  Not  dead! 
He  knew  I  heard  his  cry  for  help; 
I   dug  straight   for  his  head. 

15 

In  fifteen  seconds  I  was  there; 
Of  course  he  could  not  see; 
But  when  he  drew  a  breath  of  air. 
He  tried  to  speak  to  me. 

16 

I  hardly  stopped  to  lick  his  face 
Or  hear  the  words  he  said; 
But  ran  as  if  it  were  a  race, 
Just  arrow-like  I  sped. 

17 

"What,  back  without  your  Jacquemin!" 
All  thought  that  he  was  dead. 
They  sent  a  stretcher  with  two  men; 
I  barked  and  ran  ahead. 

18 

They  reached  the  place,  looked  on  the  ground, 
But  did  not  see  a  soul; 
I  had  to  bark,  run  'round  and  'round, 
And  point  them  to  the  hole. 

19 

You  should  have  seen  those  soldiers  dig, 
And  clear  away  the  dirt! 
They  made  the  opening  very  big; 
They  knew  that  he  was  hurt. 

20 

They  took  him  back  behind  the  line, 
And  then  real  far  away; 
I  tried  hard  not  to  weep  and  whine, 
Because  I  had  to  stay. 


[201 


21 

A  letter  came  one  day  for  me, 
And  this  is  what  it  said: 
'Permission  pour  Feind  1'Avi, 
I'm  sitting  up  in  bed.' 

22 

Well,  now  my  master  walks  again, 
Is  really  well,  you  know; 
He  has  to  limp  and  use  a  cane, 
And  moves  a  little  slow; 

23 

But  if  you  find  the  little  book, 
That  has  our  photograph; 
You'll  see  the  way  we  really  look, 
And  how  we  smile  and  laugh. 

24 

So  still  I  have  my  Jacquemin, 
And  you  may  keep  your  dollar; 
Although  you  heard  in  Americain, 
Just  how  I  got  my  collar." 


I  DREAMED  OF  PEACE 

1 

Along  the  rapid  river  Rhone, 
In  Hotel  Dieu  of  ancient  stone; 
The  House  of  God,  whence  spirits  fled, 
A  hospital  where  wounded  bled; 
While   agonizing  sufferers   screamed, 
A  stranger  soldier,  silent,  dreamed. 


[21] 


His  diva  in  \vas  not  of  shrieking  shells, 

Nor  suffocating,  strangling  smells; 

But  of  a  cabin  'cross  the  sea, 

A  pickaninny  on  his  knee, 

A  banjo  with  his  favorite  piece, 

A  dream  of  home,  and  love,  and  peace. 


Dear  comrade  with  the  mangled  hand, 
Now  gone  to  join  the  noble  band 
Of  warrior  martyrs,  slain,  that  we 
Might  see  the  peace  that  came  to  thee: 
The  dream  of  "peace  on  earth"  is  true, 
But  greater  peace  has  come  to  you. 


"So  still  I  have  my  Jacquemin,"  (Page  21) 


[221 


BALLY  SHANNON 


1 

Well,  my  full  name  is  Bally  O'Shannon; 
I  would  like  you  to  write  it  all  down, 
That  my  first  work  was  on  the  police  force 
Of  that  fine  old  Dublin  town. 

2 

I  was  born  in  the  country  of  Ireland, 
And  an  Irish  stag-hound  is  my  kind; 
From  my  birth  I  was  hunting  and  fighting, 
But  that's  something  I  never  did  mind. 

3 

When  the  terrible  war  came,  my  master 
Enlisted  and  hurried  to  France; 
When  they  said  that  I  could  go  with  him, 
The  whole  of  me  started  to  dance! 

4 

As  a  messenger-dog  in  ihe  front  line, 
I  fought  in  the  army  of  France; 
And  ran  in  the  dangerous  places 
Whenever  they  gave  me  the  chance. 

5 

Not  a  dog  in  all  of  that  army 
Pretended  that  he  was  my  match 
In  fooling  the  scouts  and  the  snipers, 
When  I  had  an  important  dispatch. 


[23] 


6 

Till  a  day  in  the  battle  of  Ypres, 
A  cannon  fell  over  on  me; 
It  was  easy  to  take  me  a  prisoner 
And  send  me  to  old  Germany; 

7 

But  when  they  found  out  I  was  crippled 
And  could  not  jump  over  a  trench, 
The  next  day  they  told  me  to  "allez," 
And  started  me  back  to  the  French. 

8 

Then  alas,  when  I  reached  my  old  kennel, 
The  news  that  was  given  to  me, 
Was  "Your  master  is  seriously  wounded, 
It's  the  Channel  and  Blighty  for  ye." 

9 

So  they  waited  for  him  to  be  able 
To  ride  in  the  old  ambulance, 
For   it's  nothing  but  bumpety-bumping 
On  the  highways  of  Belgium  and  France. 

10 

But  it's  fine  and  its  jolly  and  easy 
To  ride  in  a  ship  on  the  sea, 
With  the  floors  and  the  decks  so  level 
And  the  ocean  as  smooth  as  can  be. 

11 

But  one  day  while  I  lay  near  my  master 
A  thinking  of  him  getting  well; 
The  terrible  things  that  I  witnessed, 
Are  hard  for  me  now  to  tell. 


[241 


12 

First  a  man  on  the  lookout  shouted, 
"A  torpedo  is  coming  ahead." 
Then  there  came  a  noise  like  an  earthquake, 
And  the  wounded  were  pitched  from  their  bed. 

13 

Soon  the  deck  became  like  a  hillside, 
And  all  was  in  a  commotion; 
Then  the  claws  of  my  paws  kept  a  slipping, 
'Till  I  slipped  right  into  the  ocean. 

14 

'Twas  the  last  I  saw  of  my  master, 
For  no  one  was  able  to  save 
The  sick  and  the  poor  wounded  soldiers; 
So  the  ocean  became  their  grave. 

15 

Very  soon  a  gallant  young  soldier 
With  the  speech  and  the  clothes  of  a  YanK, 
When  he  saw  me  a  swimming  towards  him, 
He  just  pulled  me  right  onto  his  plank. 

16 

I  am  sure  my  new  master  did  like  me 
For  soon  we  were  buddies  and  mates; 
He  told  me  that  I  was  adopted 
And  would  live  in  the  United  States. 

17 

So  no  longer  my  home  is  old  Europe, 
But  New  York  and  its  fine  Central  Park; 
There  I  get  all  the  food  I  am  wanting 
And  the  license  to  run  and  to  bark. 


[25] 


18 

While  I  like  to  be  hunting  and  lighting 
And  the  terrors  of  battle  a  heap, 
I  prefer  to  be  called  a  goodi  watch-dog 
With  the  job  of  tending  the  sheep. 

19 

And  although  the  green  land  of  Ireland 
And  blue  France  are  fine  to  see, 
The  houses  and  hills  of  America 
Are  a  little  bit  finer  to  me. 

20 

By  the  blood  in  my  veins  I  am  Irish 
As  a  soldier  for  France  I  ran, 
But  now  and  forever  and  ever, 
I'm  a  hundred  percent  American. 


BALLY  SHANNON  TAKEN  IN  CENTRAL  PARK,  N.  Y. 
"With  the  job  of  tending  the  sheep,"  (Page  26). 


[26] 


THE  ARMISTICE  IN  FRANCE 


1 

Hark  to  the  clicking! 
What  message  is  this? 
The  incredible  news 
Of  an  armistice! 

2 

Quiet  and  stubborn 
The  soldiers  receive  it; 
While  madly  and  wildly 
The  people  believe  it. 

3 

France  now  is  free,  yes 
At  last  she  is  free! 
Great  and  Just  God, 
How  true  can  it  be? 

4 

Haste  with  the  message 
Over  mountain  and  sea; 
To  brave  Relgium,  Alsace, 
Then  the  Land  of  the  Free. 

5 

Men  in  the  prison, 
The  poor  peasantry; 
Tell  them  'tis  true 
That  our  country  is  free. 

6 

Swift  as  a  flash 

At  this  long-waited  word; 

Vanished  the  gleam 

Of  the  Damoclean  sword; 

7 

One,  which  a  war 
In  the  name  of  the  Lord, 
Hung  over  France 
With  the  slenderest  cord. 


[27] 


8 

Out  from  the  shop 
From  the  field  and  forum; 
Fling  to  the  winds 
All  reserve  and  decorum. 

9 

Title  or  nation, 
Whatever  it  be; 
Remember,  today 
Our  France  was  made  Free. 

10 

Run  in  a  riot 
And  shout  in  a  spree; 
Officer,  soldier, 
Whoever  you  be. 

11 

Rolic  and  frolic 
With  glorious  glee; 
Dance  like  a  wild 
And  a   turbulent  sea. 

12 

Men  from  Morocco 
The  Senegalec, 
Britain  and  Siam, 
Japan,   Italy; 

13 

Chant  in  a  great 
World  melody; 
Vive  la  France! 
Fraternite! 

14 

Vive  la  France!  Egalite! 
Vive  la  France!  Liberte! 
Liberte,   Liberte, 
Ah— Liberte ! 


128] 


[29] 


WE  REST  IN  CHATEAU-THIERRY 


No,  mother  dearest, 

The  earth  is  not  hard,  here 

About  me; 

It  feels  like  the  covers 

You  tucked  in  so  close, 

When  you  bent  o'er  the  bedside, 

And  kissed  me  good-night; 

For  it's  pressed  by  the  tread 

Of  my  buddies,  who  fell, 

And  the  brave  stretcher-bearers 

Who  found  me. 


No,  my  dear  daddy, 

The  snow  is  not  cold,  here 

About  me; 

I  think  of  the  feathers, 

We  slept  in  at  home, 

With  the  pure,  clean  counierpane 

Spotless  and  white, 

Like  the  smooth,  shiny  crust 

On  my  favorite  hill 

Where  we  coasted  and  slid  down 

Together. 


130] 


3 

No,  little  sister, 

The  stars  are  not  harsh  in 

Their  shining, 

For  they  are  the  ones,  who 

With  Deborah's  hosts 

And  with  Barak's  men  fought  in 

Their  courses  to  win; 

And  they  helped  on  the  big  hill, 

Belleau  Woods  and  at  Vaux; 

You  must  watch  them,  and  love  them 

As  ever. 

4 

No,  my  brave  brother, 
Think  not  I  am  sadl  and 
Unhappy/ 

For  this  is  the  town  where 
Jean  Fontaine  was  born. 
He  has  left  in  the  air,  all 
The  princes,  the  elves, 
And  the  animals,   too, 
For  they  act  all  his  stories 
To  me  every  day;  I 
Am  happy. 

5 

No,  mother  dearest, 
Your  son  is  not  slighted, 
Neglected; 

Each  day  come  our  boys,  and 
They  pass  not  a  tag, 
Many  choke  as  they  read  them, 
And  send  us  a  thought. 
Yes,  those  big  strapping  fellows 
Shed  tears,  for  they  feel 
We  are  dead  and  forgotten 
Forever. 


1311 


(5 

Yes,  precious  mother, 
Your  boy  has  a  mother's 
Remembrance. 
These  wonderful  mothers 
Of  France,  stricken  too, 
Come  with  flowers,  and  wreaths 
Made  of  glass,  and  they  utter 
A  prayer,  and  call  me  their  son. 
Do  not  worry,  dear  mother, 
We  are  resting  in 
Chateau-Thierry. 


AN  AMERICAN  CEMETERY  AT  BELLEAU  WOODS. 

"The  roots  of  the  union — are  spread 

Like — wood  crosses  on  mounds  of  our  distant  dead,"  (Page  35) 

"Your  boy  has  a  mother's  remembrance,"  (Page  32). 
"Said  the  men  beneath  the  sod,"  (Page  37). 


[32] 


HELP  OF  THE  HILLS 


Into  thy  bosom,  thou 
High  Alpine  Hills, 
Wearied  and  worn  with 
The  war  that  I  flee; 
Gladly  I  come  for  thy 
Quietness  stills 
The  tense  throbbing  tumults 
That  sent  me  to  thee. 


Capped  with  the  chaste  clouds, 
Clear  lakes  at  thy  feet, 
Girded  with  garments  of 
Green  grass  and  tree; 
Sound  is  the  slumber 
And  soothing  the  sleep, 
Given   to  guests  who 
Go  up  unto  thee. 


Fare,  fare  thee  well,  thou 
Faint  forested  forms, 
Source  and  the  symbol  of 
Strength  unto  me; 
Seeing  thy  sides  shroud 
With  sunshine  and  storms, 
Helped  me  to  Him,  who 
Made  Heaven  and  thee. 


[33] 


YOl*  AND  I 


1 

We  romped   tin    Melds  together, 
Beneath  the  April  sky; 
You  would  seek  the  daisy, 
And,  I  the  butterfly; 
Joying  in  the  weather, 
You  and  I. 

2 

We  went  to  school  as  sweethearts, 
Beneath  the  teacher's  eye; 
You  would  send  me  glances, 
And  I  would  make  reply; 
Heedless  of  his  eye-darts, 
You  and  I. 

3 

We  stood  before  the  altar 
Beneath  the  spire,  high; 
You  were  dressed  in  white,  dear, 
And  I  was  standing  by, 
Heedless  of  a  falter, 
You  and  I. 

4 

We  live  in  joy  together, 
The  years  are  hastening  by; 
But  you  are  still  my  sweetheart, 
And  I,  your  lover,  aye 
Forever  and  forever, 
You  and  I. 


[341 


THE  FLOWER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 


The  Roots 
Of  the  flower  of  friendship, 

With  Fair  France 
Since  the  plant  was  set, 
Have  become  as  old 

As  Rochambeau, 
And  deep  as  our  Lafayette. 

2 

The  Mesh 
Of  the  roots  of  the  union, 

Of  the  two 

Free-made  soils  are  spread, 
Like  glass-bead  wreaths 

And  woodl  crosses, 
On  mounds  of  our  distant  dead. 


The  Bloom 
And  the  Seed  of  the  flower, 

Are  children 
Of  the  war's  romance, 
In  the  native  homes 

That  our  soldiers, 
Have  built  with  the  maids  of  France. 


WHO  WON  THE  WAR? 

Who  won  the  great  war, 

Who  beat  the  foe? 

"I,"  said  the  French, 

Standing  in  their 

Narrow  trench; 

"I  laid  him  low 
With  my  tiger,  Clemenceau; 

I  won  the  war." 

Who  won  the  great  war, 

Who  chased  the  foe? 

"I,"  said  the  Italian, 

Sitting  on  his 

Blooded  stallion; 

"I  brought  him  low 
With  my  bald  D'Annunzio; 

I  won  the  war." 

Who  won  the  great  war, 

Who  stopped  the  foe? 

"I,"  said  Great  Britain, 

At  her  tea-cups 

Calmly  sittin'; 

"I  held  him  low 
With  Lloyd  George  and  Jellicoe; 

I  won  the  war." 

Who  won  the  great  war, 

Who  foiled)  the  foe? 

"I,"  said  the  Japanese, 

In  Shantung  up 

To  their  knees; 

"I  kept  him  low 
With  my  plans  from  Tokio; 

I  won  the  war." 

[361 


Who  won  the  great  war, 

Who  tricked  the  foe? 

"I,"  said   the  Russian, 

His  bushy  beard 

A  brushin'; 

"I  made  him  go 
Where  he  got  the  knock-out  blow; 

I  won  the  war." 

Who  won  the  great  war, 

Who  fooled  the  foe? 

"I,"  said  the  Yanks 

From  their  dug-outs 

And    their    tanks; 

"I  laid  him  low 
With  our  President  Woodrow; 

I  won  the  war." 

Who  won  the  great  war, 

Who  checked  the  foe? 

"I,"  the  Belgian  said, 

From  their  city 

Of  the  dead; 

"I  brought  him  low, 
With  what  brought  my  country  woe; 

I  won  the  war." 

"You  won  the  great  war, 

You  laid  him  low! 

By  the  living  God," 

Said  the  men 

Beneath  the  sod; 

"We  brought  him  low 
By  the  blood)  he  caused  to  flow; 

We  won  the  war." 


137] 


THK  !  ACK  OF  FKANV.K 


1 
Yesterday 

Our  France  w;is  fair. 

Like  a  gracious  girl. 

With  a  joyous  air; 
Yesterday 

A  smile  was  there, 

With  laughing  eyes 

And  wind-tossed  hair. 

For  her  waving  locks  and  soft,  light  hair, 
Were  the  trees  and  the  grain  in  the  summer  air; 
And  her  deep  red  cheeks  and  laughing  eyes, 
Were  the  sun-kissed  clouds  of  the  bright,  blue  skies. 
Yesterday 

Our  France  was  fair; 

Her  face  was  free 

From  the  lines  of  care. 

2 

But  to-day 

Our  France  is  marred. 
Like   a   widowed  girl 
From  her  mate  debarred; 

Ah,  to-day 
Her  face  is  scarred 
With  hollowed  cheeks 
And  wrinkles  hard, 

For  her  hollowed  cheeks  and  sunken  eyes 
Are  the  deep  shell-holes,  where  her  glory  lies; 
And  the  hard,  drawn  lines  on  her  once  smooth  brow, 
Are  the  furrowed  fields  of  the  trenches  now. 

And  to-day 
Our  France  is  marred; 
Her  face  from  the  gaze 
Of  the  world)  is  barred. 


[38] 


3 

To-morrow 
Our  France  is  strong, 
Like  a  girl  mature 
Who   has   conquered   wrong: 

To-morrow 
She  sings  a  song, 
In  tune  with  the  sound 
Of  the  Builder's  throng. 
For  the  serious  song  from  her  finer  face, 
Is  the  sound  of  restoring  her  ravished  place; 
And  her  chastened  color  and  deeper  eyes, 
Are  the  features  seen  where  a  New  France  lies. 

To-morrow 
Our  France  is  strong, 
Mature,  noble  woman 
Who  conquered  wrong. 


IRON  HEELS 


I  faintly  hear 
The  rasping  sound 
Of  hob-nailed  shoes, 
On  stony  ground; 
And  million  marks 
Of  iron  nails 
I  see,  in  mud 
Of  soldier  trails. 

The  Iron  Man 
Of  Iron  Hands 
And  Heels,  is  bound 
In  foreign  lands; 
Now  marks  in  mud 
On  road  and  street, 
Are  heels  and  toes 
Of  children's  feet. 


[39] 


"Where  a  New  France  lies."  (Page  39). 

[401 


TEAM  WORK 

I  saw 
Two  wounded  poilus 

A  coming 
Down  the  street; 

One  was 
Pushing  the  other 

In  a 
Wheel-chair  seat; 

The  man 
Behind  was  blind; 

The  other 
Had  lost  his  feet. 


THE  TIDES 

1 

When  the  tides  of  the  sea  go  out, 
Out  where  no  one  knows; 
Barnacled  bowlders,  and  sea-weedy  stones, 
Queer  crawling  crabs,  and  dead  fish-bones, 

Litter  the  floor 

Of  the  uncovered  shore, 
When  the  tides  of  the  sea  go  out. 

2 

When  the  tides  of  the  sea  come  in, 
No  one  knows  from  where; 
Wind-wrinkled  eddies,  surf  born  of  the  breeze, 
Quick  creeping  currents,  and  swelling  seas, 

Cover  the  floor 

Of  the  unsightly  shore, 
When  the  tides  of  the  sea  come  in. 


[41] 


JOAN  OF  ARC 


Delicate  Daughter  of  Domrcmy, 

Thy  friends  were  the  lily, 

The  bird,  and  the  tree; 

The  eolts  and  the  cattle 

Companioned  with  thee; 

The  vines  and  the  clouds, 

An  arched  canopy, 

Was  Out-of-Door's  mantle, 

That  hung  over  thee, 

Delicate  Daughter  of  Domremy. 


Meek  Martyred  Maiden  of  Orleans, 

The  day  when  the  Visions 

And  Voices  began; 

Thy  God-given  place  was 

The  King's  Army  van. 

Thy  comrades  were  men, 

Thy  role  was  a  man, 

With  sword  and  the  cuirass 

Of  Warriors'  clan, 

Meek  Martyred  Maiden  of  Orleans. 

[42] 


Virgin  Victorious  of  New  Versailles, 

Thy  Soul  from  the  faggots 

Still  flames  in  the  sky; 

The  living,  with  those  who 

On  Battlefields  lie, 

Again  for  thy  faith 

And  thy  leadership  cry 

To  crown  a  New  France,  France 

That  never  can  die, 

Virgin  Victorious  of  New  Versailles. 


PEKMISSION    METROPOLITAN    MUSEUM    OF    ART. 

"The  day  when  the  Visions — began."   (Page  42) 


[43] 


NOTES 


(Poems  and  pictures  should  speak  for  themselves;  however  at  the 
request  of  many  teachers  for  the  setting  of  these  poems,  the  following  notes 
have  been  written.) 


FRANCE  CALLS  TO  ME,  (Page  1.) 

While  addressing  the  soldiers  of  a  dozen  eastern  camps,  trying  to  give 
them  in  simple  language  our  motives  for  entering  the  war,  and  attempting 
to  remove  conscientious  objections,  the  call  came  to  me.  One  day  as  the 
strains  of  the  Marseillaise  floated  in  my  window,  I  saw  a  little  red-coated 
naturalized  American  climbing  up  the  rain-spout  and  on  the  shutters,  to 
collect  for  The  Red  Cross.  His  chatter  came  like  a  rebuke.  The  example 
of  the  monkey  coming  upon  the  strains  of  the  great  anthem,  opened  my 
eyes  and  ears  to  the  visions  and  sounds  of  the  poem. 

The  author  is  grateful  to  the  critics  who  say  this  poem  gives  the  rea 
son  for  America  entering  the  war,  for  he  wishes  the  boys  and  girls  of 
America  to  believe  that  our  two  million  men  and  women  went  across  the 
sea,  not  merely  for  self  defense,  conquest,  commerce  or  adventure,  but  in 
the  interest  of  fair  play,  to  heed  the  call  of  dwarfed  childhood,  sorrowing 
woman-hood,  desecrated  religion  and  sacrificed  men. 


THE  CHICAGO,  (Page  3). 

This  jingle  is  included  at  the  request  of  many  teachers  and  children. 
The  Chicago  was  one  of  the  slower  boats  of  The  "Compagnie  Generale 
Transatlantique,"  impressed  as  a  transport.  Here  is  a  fanciful  reason  why 
we  were  not  torpedoed  going  over.  No  torpedo  could  be  timed  slow  enough 
to  hit  her.  It  would  always  go  ahead  of  the  boat. 


IN  BISCAY  BAY,   (Page  4). 

About  5  o'clock,  the  night  before  we  landed  in  Bordeaux,  a  little  bird 
came  on  board  and  perched  on  the  foreward  gun,  stayed  twenty  minutes, 
then  returned  to  France.  This  is  the  story  of  France's  darkest  hour  in  the 
early  spring  1918  and  America's  help  when  most  needed.  Leaving  its  mates 
in  the  woods  on  the  front,  just  when  France  was  preparing  to  give  up 


[45] 


l';m>  M  i  In  capii.-il.  n  lieu  M  a \\ :i i <!.-.  Seeing  what  w:is  un  the  ship:  soldiers, 
:inns  and  stores,  it  returned  to  n-  mat.-  with  mingled  shame  and  joy, 
telling  them  to  sing  on. 


AT  A  PARIS  APPLE  STAND,  (Page  5.) 

The  .i]i|>l<<  in  tlir  market  place  were  gnarled,  wrinkled  and  -perked. 
and  yet  the  blush  of  red  was  on  them.  .Fust  so,  the  people  and  fields  of 
France  were  wounded  and  wrinkled  by  grief  and  the  trenches.  Even  in 
war.  F'"rance  tried  to  be  nay  and  reflect  the  colors  of  the  sky  and  sun. 


NO  BREAD  FOR  THE  BIRDS,   (Page  6.) 

During  the  air-raids  and  the  first  bombardment  of  Paris,  the  bread  was 
so  scarce  that  the  people  were  forbidden  to  feed,  as  was  their  custom,  the 
birds  in  the  park.  In  Luxembourg  (Jardens  I  saw  this  sign  "Ne  Donnez 
Pas  DC  Pain  Aux  Oi*<'an.r."  The  plight  of  the  birds  gives  the  tragedy, 
heroisms  and  fruits  of  war. 


THEY  BURIED  HER  AS  A  SOLDIER,  (Page  8.) 

Never  was  there  a  war  in  which  women  took  such  a  large  and  real 
part.  Miss  Marion  Crandall  of  the  Foyers  du  Soldat,  The  Y.  M.  C.  A.  of 
the  French  Army,  was  the  first  American  woman  to  be  killed  in  the  war. 
Wrapped  in  a  French  flag,  she  was  given  a  military  funeral,  and  was  buried 
in  the  Soldiers  Cemetarv  in  St.  Menehould. 


INTERCESSION,   (Page  10.) 

In  the  quiet  and  solitary  moments,  that  came  to  every  soldier,  he  was 
conscious  that  away  across  the  sea.  his  most  anxious  loved  one  was  praying 
for  him. 


TONY,   (Page   10.) 

1  have  seen  in  our  camps,  boys  so  illiterate,  that  they  would  spend 
hours  piecing  together  the  discarded  puzzle  games  sent  in  with  books  and 
magazines.  It  was  these  simple-hearted  lads,  who  when  the  supreme  test 
came,  lived  the  life  heroic,  and  were  souls  superlative.  After  such  a  stren 
uous  life,  these  immigrant  children  or  sons  of  foreign-born  parents,  returned 


[461 


to  the  simple  life,  quietly  and  patiently  suffering  in  the  hospitals,  and 
amusing  themselves,  looking  at  the  funny  pages  in  the  old  Sunday  news 
papers  sent  across. 


PONT  WILSON,   (Page  11.) 

This  poem  was  first  recited  July  14,  1918,  Bastile  Day  (the  author's 
birthday),  in  Grand  Theatre,  Lyons,  before  Ambassador  Sharp,  Mayor  Her- 
riot,  Consul  Carrigan  and  the  assembled  people  at  the  dedication  of  Wilson 
Bridge.  It  was  spoken  by  Henri  Brodin,  aged  13,  of  the  Lycee  Ampere 
and  was  the  only  English  addressed  officially  to  the  Ambassador  that 
day.  The  American  regiment  led  by  General  Alexander  with  the  band 
playing  the  thrilling  Bagley's  "National  Emblem,"  was  the  first  to  march 
across.  The  pictures  of  the  bridge  and  the  poem  were  framed  and  sent  to 
President  Wilson  at  Paris.  Pont  Wilson,  next  to  Pont  Lafayette,  is  one  of 
the  many  bridges  which  holds  together  the  great  silk  city,  divided  by  the 
swift  Rhone  and  the  gentle  Soane.  It  is  a  suggestive  symbol  of  America's 
effort  to  help  hold  together  the  liberty-loving  nations  and  peoples  of  the 
world. 


THREE  GIFTS,  (Page  12). 

There  is  nothing  more  important  in  life  than  the  making  and  keeping 
of  friends.  This  poem  was  written  at  Christmas  when  I  was  wishing  to  give 
something  to  my  many  friends:  boys  and  girls.  Unlike  toys  and  things 
friends  will  not  rust  or  break  up.  They  are  the  greatest  riches  in  this  life. 
They  will  follow  us  into  the  life  beyond. 


CHER  AMI,    (Page   14). 

Among  the  American  carrier  pigeon  heroes  of  the  war  such  as  Lafayette, 
Poilu,  Spike  and  Pershing,  none  were  more  famous  than  ''Cher  Ami."  The 
picture  was  taken  in  Washington,  where,  by  Government  orders,  he  is 
afforded  the  finest  care.  In  the  Argonne  Forest  drive,  the  battalion  of  the 
307th  Infantry  under  Major  Whittlesley  got  so  far  ahead,  that  communi 
cations  were  cut  off.  The  American  barrage  fire  fell  among  them  instead  of 
the  enemy.  For  six  days  they  were  in  the  Bois  de  Beuge,  suffering  for  lack 
of  food  and  from  the  shell-fire.  Their  men  could  not  get  through.  Three 
of  their  pigeons  were  released  but  in  vain.  They  put  a  message  on  their 
last  pigeon,  Cher  Ami.  He  got  through  safely  and  "saved  the  battalion." 
Later  when  the  army  crossed  the  Meuse  River  for  the  first  time  and 
stormed  the  heights,  Cher  Ami  was  sent  to  Rampont  with  the  news.  Just 
as  he  reached  the  proper  altitude,  he  began  to  fall.  All  thought  he  was 


killed.  Hi  wavered  for  :i  I'ew  seconds,  then  started  home  living  i()  kilo 
meters  iii  •_'.")  iniinites.  When  they  found  him  in  the  coop,  his  breast  was 
torn  and  his  left  leg  was  dangling  by  the  tendons.  It  had  to  be  removed. 
He  had  done  his  worked.  Nursed  buck  to  health,  he  \\.-i-  -ent  to  \V:ishiim- 
ton.  his  home  for  life. 


THE   LANGUAGE   OF   FRANCE,    (Page   16). 

Charles  the  Fifth  of  Spain  said,  "Speak  Spanish  to  God,  Italian  to 
your  sweetheart,  English  to  your  birds... and  French  to  your  friends." 


FEIND  L'   AVI,   (Page  18). 

The  work  of  the  dogs  was  a  brilliant  page  in  the  history  of  the  war. 
Jacquemin  was  an  Algerian  Zouave  Sergeant.  He  and  Feind  1'Avi,  were 
inseparable.  Feind  is  German,  meaning  "enemy;"  1'Avi.  corrupt  French 
means  "watch" — "watcher  of  the  enemy."  Jacquemin  was  sent  to  blow 
up  an  ammunition  pile  which  was  threatened.  Before  he  reached  it,  an 
enemy  shell  struck  it,  exploding  it.  and  Jacquemin  was  buried  in  seven  or 
eight  feet  of  earth  in  the  trench.  With  wonderful  sagacity ,Feind  dug  down 
towards  his  master  so  hard  and  fast,  that  he  wore  his  paws  to  the  bone. 
He  brought  him  air  before  he  smothered.  He  howled  for  help  in  vain,  then 
ran  back  to  the  next  trench.  He  led  the  stretcher  bearers  to  the  hole.  At  the 
hospital  when  Jacquemin  became  rational,  he  called  for  his  dog.  The  pic 
ture  shows  them  just  after  he  recovered.  For  this  heroic  deed  the  French 
Society  for  Protecting  Animals  gave  Feind  a  beautiful  golden  collar. 


I   DREAMED  OF  PEACE,   (Page  21). 

When  in  the  city  of  Lyons,  i  was  called  to  the  ancient  French  Hos 
pital,  Hotel  Dieu,  to  see  an  American  colored  soldier.  He  was  Wm.  Flood, 
private  in  Co.  H.  369th  Reserve  Infantry.  One  arm  was  gone  and  he  was 
fatally  stricken  with  pleurisy.  I  visited  him  several  times.  At  his  request 
and  much  to  the  reverent  wonder  of  the  French  patients,  I  sang  with  a 
colored  comrade  next  to  him  some  of  the  hymns  precious  to  their  faith. 
When  told  the  night  before  he  died  that  peace  was  near,  with  a  beautiful 
light  in  his  eye  and  a  sweet  smile  from  the  show  of  his  perfect  teeth  said, 
"You  know  last  night  I  dreamed  of  peace."  WTith  soldiers  to  fire  a  salute, 
he  was  buried  near  other  Americans  in  a  cemeterv  in  the  city. 


BALLY  SHANNON,  (Page  23). 

This  is  a  real  story  of  a  real  dog,  and  like  many  people  from  across  the 
sea,  Bally  became  an  American.   This  poem  or  rather  "doggerel,"  included 


[48] 


at  request  of  many  teachers,  is  faithful  to  the  facts  of  his  life.  "The 
American  who  shared  his  plank  was  so  impressed  with  the  dog's  patient 
courage  that  after  he  was  rescued,  he  adopted  Bally  and  brought  him  to 
America."  His  last  home  was  Central  Park,  N.  Y..  under  the  care  of  Tom 
Hoey,  the  park  shepherd. 


THE   ARMISTICE   IN  FRANCE,   (Page  27). 

Nov.  11,  1918,  while  a  remarkable  day  in  America,  was  more  memorable 
in  France.  These  visions  and  exultations  which  came  to  me  that  night 
while  in  my  barracks, 'but  faintly  express  what  the  people  of  France  felt. 


WE  REST  IN  CHATEAU  THIERRY,  (Page  30.) 

This  poem  was  written  during  a  visit  in  the  winter  of  1918  to  the  graves 
of  Belleau  Woods  and  Chateau  Thierry.  This  was  the  town  were  Fontaine 
the  writer  of  the  Fables  was  born  and  lived.  I  saw  and  felt  all  the  things 
in  this  poem  and  it  is  my  deep  wish  that  they  will  bring  comfort  to  those 
whose  brothers  and  sons  lie  in  this  holy  ground.  The  poem  was  written  be 
fore  and  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  publicity  campaign  to  "keep  our  boys 
in  France."  While  I  have  often  thought  that  we  need  all  of  them  here  to 
hallow  and  consecrate  our  own  cemeteries,  for  there  are  in  comparison  with 
the  other  countries,  only  a  few  for  each  American  town,  yet  France  through 
her  Government  and  the  people  who  visit  or  live  near  by,  will  guard  and 
care  for  them  as  though  they  were  their  own  sons. 


HELP  OF  THE  HILLS,  (Page  33). 

The  wounded  and  sick  were  cared  for  by  the  splendid  welfare  or 
ganization:  Red  Cross,  Y.  M.  C.  A;  Y.  W.  C.  A;  Knights  of  Columbus; 
Jewish  Welfare  Board  and  Salvation  Army.  The  beautiful  hills  and  moun 
tains  where  these  resorts  and  hospitals  were  situated,  were  curative  to  the 
body  and  inspiring  to  the  soul.  The  soldiers  say  with  the  Psalmist  "I  will 
look  unto  the  Hills.  Whence  cometh  my  Help?" 


YOU  AND  I,   (Page  34). 

Many  a  fireside  was  left  lonely,  for  sons  and  grandsons  were  either 
buried  near  the  front  or  fighting.  Here  is  a  picture  of  grand  parents  still 
"ardent  and  true,"  watching  the  embers  of  the  wood  and  their  own  hearts 
glow  as  they  review  the  happy  drama  of  their  own  lives. 


[49] 


THE   FLOWER  OF  FRIENDSHIP,   (Pap-  35). 

We  ran  understand  with  Franklin,  who  said  tlnit  "every  man  has  two 
mother  countries:  his  own  ;m<l  tlien  France,"  why  Americans  should  espe 
cially  love  France.  This  love  was  planted  with  the  coming  of  Lafayette 
This  root  has  deepened  with  age,  and  has  now  spread  like  a  mesh  l>\  tin 
graves  of  our  hoys  who  are  Imned  in  so  many  parts  of  her  soil.  De-pin 
the  unhappy  things  that  follow  in  the  wake  of  an  army  on  the  soil  of  an 
ally,  thousands  of  French  and  Americans  have  inter-married,  making  the 
two  countries  more  friendlv  and  intimate. 


WHO  WON  THE  WAR?,   (Page  36). 

Only  after  sincere  request  from  teachers  of  Day  and  Evening  Schools, 
is  this  cartoon  included.  Soon  after  my  return,  when  addressing  assemblies 
of  the  schools,  in  response  to  "Who  Won  the  War?",  with  great  voice  they 
answered  "The  Americans!"  Now  their  second  thought  is,  "The  Allies." 
These  verses  should  help  our  youth  to  know  that  the  real  victors  were 
those  who  cannot  speak  for  themselves,  but  whose  blood  of  sacrifice  cries 
out  for  them. 


THE  FACE  OF  FRANCE,   (Page  38) 

This  poem  was  written  the  night  of  the  armistice  when  the  devas 
tated  country  came  as  a  vision  of  a  once  beautiful  girl,  now  disfigured  by 
grief  and  assault,  but  transfigured  in  countenance  through  the  beauty  of 
character  by  service  and  suffering.  It  was  first  recited  in  the  University  of 
Lyons,  before  a  convocation  of  French  and  American  students,  by  Madame 
Moreno-Argenon  of  the  Paris  Comedaie  Francaise. 


IRON  HEELS,   (Page  39). 

The  first  time  I  saw  the  muddy  roads  marked  by  the  hob  nails  of  the 
soldiers,  they  seemed  as  the  "Dragon's  teeth"  sown  by  the  God  of  War. 
After  the  modern  God  of  War  had  been  held  in  a  foreign  land,  again  the 
road  became  marked  by  children  playing,  going  on  errands  and  wending 
their  wav  to  school. 


TEAM  WORK,  (Page  41). 

After  the  Armistice,  France  did  all  she  could  to  help  herself.  With  hun 
dreds  of  thousands  of  cripples  she  set  about  to  prepare  them  to  do  some- 


[501 


thing  useful.  This  little  picture  but  faintly  suggest  the  spirit  of  France 
and  what  the  wounded,  instead  of  filling  the  streets  in  the  role  of  beggars 
and  peddlers,  are  doing  for  themselves  and  others. 


THE  TIDES,   (Page  41). 

A  picture  along  the  rocky  sea-shore.  It  may  be  a  picture  without  a 
lesson.  I  would  not  wish  to  convey  the  idea  that  I  have  a  belief  in  the  al 
ternating  tide-like  recurrence  of  war  and  peace,  that  at  stated  intervals 
the  world  in  all  of  its  horrors  is  exposed  and  afterwards  it  is  covered  by 
a  flood-tide  of  idealism.  Rather  would  I  have  it  that  an  ugly  and  broken 
life,  when  covered  by  the  divine  forgiveness  has  became  united  with  that 
larger  life  which  reaches  into  the  Beyond. 


JOAN  OF  ARC,   (Page  42). 

This  vision  like  many  others  was  flashed  upon  me  where  and  when  I 
was  too  busy  and  weary  to  finish  it.  Born  in  France,  it  was  reared  in  Amer 
ica.  Strangely,  after  it  was  finished,  I  discovered  that  the  three  visions 
corresponded  to  those  of  La  Page's  Masterpiece  in  the  Metropolitan  Mu 
seum  of  Art.  Joan  tells  the  story  of  France  in  her  own  life :  Domremy — out 
of  doors,  reflecting  the  beauty  of  natural  and  animal  life ;  Orleans — a  soldier 
from  necessity  and  not  choice;  Versailles — she  and  not  Napoleon  brooded 
over  the  palace.  Where  once  luxury  and  aristocracy  ruled,  now  Militarism 
has  given  place  to  the  hope  of  a  real  democracy.  Upon  this  saint,  so  much 
like  an  American  for  she  was  athletic,  democratic  and  religious,  for  she 
kept  in  touch  with  the  big  wholesome  out-of-doors,  with  all  sorts  and  con 
ditions  of  men,  and  with  God,  does  France  build  her  new  foundations. 


[51] 


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